Former home of Ranting and Raving, Charlotte-based writer Regan White has taken a turn as a recovering journalist. Continue to follow the antics, anecdotes, sarcasm and sentimentalism here.

August 2007

August 31, 2007

Fun fact for the day: If Wikipedia can be trusted, Kool-Aid was originally called Fruit Smack. Yes, that's right, Fruit Smack. Kind of makes you wonder why they changed it, eh? Both kind of sound like the names of street drugs, really. Fruit Smack at least has a satisfying, fun-to-say action word in it. It would put a bit of a different spin on those commercials featuring the Kool-Aid pitcher, though. I have visions of him wobbling around on his little legs, smacking kids forcefully on the forehead with various fruits like an evangelical preacher making the healing rounds.

I found the Fruit Smack folklore this afternoon while double checking the hyphenation of Kool-Aid for a story in Union County Weekly I was editing. It's about a woman and her sheltie "Max the Dog." The pair make the rounds of various schools, educational centers and conventions to educate about everything from safety around dogs and proper dog care to nutrition. Due to a recent rash of dog incidents in Union County's Indian Trail, Max the Dog taught a special course for a group of children who live in a "dog-troubled neighborhood," as the article called it.

I haven't read anything as funny as this article in quite some time. Max the Dog is the man. Well, he's a dog actually. I find it pretty funny that in most every reference he's explicitly called Max ... the Dog, as if anyone might meet him and wonder otherwise. The descriptor is necessary, though. It would really be no big deal for some guy named Max to wander around and tell kids what to do when dogs attack. It's quite another when Max the Dog and his owner show up somewhere and Max retrieves various lesson items out of his suitcase and even, at one point, charges the children so they can practice what to do when a dog attacks (Answer: Make like a rock.). So I can understand the desire to keep it clear that he's a dog with serious skills.

Part of the process at our papers is that the entire editorial staff reads each other's pages. It's sometimes tedious, but one of the best parts of the job. Some days, as you might imagine, I am pretty loopy. Today was one of them. I could hardly get through the Max story without being reduced to tears of laughter. It was awesome. Every line was better than the last. Just when I thought it couldn't get any better, the story detailed how the trainer instructed the children on the importance of dog's chewing on only dog toys and not people's belongings. At that point a kid piped up and said, "My grandma's dog chews on all kinds of things -- even my grandpa's pants!"

I guess you kind of had to be there. It was hilarious. Believe me. I better stop drinking the Fruit Smack.

P.S. Wow, I never realized that the pitcher actually has a name. He's called Kool-Aid Man. How original. Kraft Foods currently has a promotion running called "Where in the World is Kool-Aid Man?" In the image and on the front of the site, Kool-Aid Man is decked out in casual traveling gear: a Hawaiian shirt, shorts, a glass of Kool-Aid with a tropical umbrella. It's really creepy. It makes it look like Kool-Aid Man is a 40-year-old guy hanging around a seedy tiki bar. Or a frat guy who's a seventh-year collegiate senior. The mature look kind of makes sense. It's not like he's Kool-Aid Boy. He's a man. He's earned the seedy Hawaiian shirt I guess, even if he can't ever button it up because it would cover his face. That's what happens when your face is where your belly is. Click here to see what I'm talking about.

P.P.S. I went back to the page to copy the link and noticed that in one image he has a slight bulge in his capri pants/shorts (nasty) and in another image he has a line drawn where I guess the zipper fly to those lovely pants goes? Let's be honest with ourselves here, Kraft. Kool-Aid Man does not have to go the bathroom. He has much bigger problems going on, like the fact that his pants button under his chin.

August 30, 2007

I am not someone who tries to outsmart my gas gauge. I do not drive on empty. Or even remotely empty. The last time my low gas tank light came on was four years ago and I was stuck in bumper-to-bumper traffic on the interstate and couldn't exit to get more. Even though I coasted just fine into the next rest stop, it drove me insane for miles to look at that red gas pump symbol beaming up at me from my dashboard like a national emergency. For some, it's no big deal. The minute I hit a quarter tank I start looking for gas.

So tonight felt like I was beating the clock as I drove from work to the camera store to replace my inexplicably broken camera memory card (I arrived at 6:18; the store closed at 6. I have had no luck lately.) on a quarter-tank of gas. Then I met a friend for our regular beer and fried pickles rendezvous. From there, I met up with my parents and their best friends, my chosen aunt and uncle Roseann and Charlie. Then I went to CVS. And it was there I realized the needle of my gas gauge was right on the empty line, just on that marker before you hit the red zone and the light comes on. I hardly breathed as I drove to the gas station. It wasn't far, but you would have thought I was coasting on fumes and stuck in the Sahara with no water in some beat up jalopy.

But this rant is not about tapping your gas tank dry, or driving in the red zone or any of that. No, this rant is about how the damn computerized gas tanks ALWAYS, ALWAYS, ALWAYS read "Please remove card quickly" the moment you insert your card. I'm so fast scanning my card you can barely see my hand move. Then, seconds later, the machine has the audacity to tell ME to "remove my card quickly"?!?

I can understand having the message up there, particularly for people who slowly swipe their cards, as if they're giving the scanner a real good, hard look at the magnetic strip on the card (as if this might help the process). But don't flash that message at me when I've swiped my card so fast that it takes your message 15 seconds to catch up!

It's just insulting. Pumping gas isn't the most entertaining activity anyway. Add to it the soaring gas prices of the past forever and it's little wonder more people aren't going nuts on gas tanks when the ticker haughtily tells them to swipe their cards more quickly.

I'll give 'em quick; I'll give 'em so quick that I don't even go through the trouble of swiping AT ALL next time! Yeah! Take that!

August 29, 2007

Why is it that pools generally close around here immediately following Labor Day weekend? I understand that many lifeguards and pool staffers are in school and, with school back in session, manning the lifeguard chair is a bit difficult. But honestly. We live in the South. We've had strings of 100+ degree days. I think we could find someone to sit in the lifeguard chair and keep our pools open until Indian summer is officially over and a bit of cool sets in, which, at this rate, will be around Thanksgiving.

There is nothing more tragic than driving past the pool after Labor Day and it's all closed and shuttered, no splashing, no children, no whistle blowing, no watery, outdoor cool-off option.

It really ticks me off.

I could understand if we lived in Buffalo, NY, or Maine or something, but we're in North Carolina. We're locked into the stifling humidity and skin-searing heat of Charlotte. I think we could manage to bend the rules a bit and extend our outdoor community and gym pool hours.

I'd be willing to man the lifeguard chair but I'd only be able to staff it after 6 p.m., which doesn't allow for a lot of kick board time. I also can't swim for crap, which is a small hindrance. But if you don't mind swimming late and feel fairly confident you won't drown under my watch, I'm game. I say we band together and storm a community pool, stage an Indian Summer sit-in, or stroke-in or inner-tube-in, as the case may be. We could take turns picketing outside the fence with signs that read, "We won't go -- until it's cold!" or "We'll retire the flippers at the first frost!"

Water-lovers unite! I want extended pool access! It should be a natural right to have access to a pool if a heat index is still in effect -- right up there with the right to food, shelter, clean air, health care access, a decent education. Ooh, looking over that list, it seems we already have our hands full ensuring most of those so-called inalienable rights. All the more reason to add this "extended pool season in climates where it makes sense" mandate to the list. Unlike many of the others, it's pretty darn easy to address.

August 28, 2007

A quick post as I drift off to sleep -- watch it out there, my friends. It's not only a full moon but also a lunar eclipse slated for early this morning, an astrological and astronomical double-whammy that is sure to bring the freaks and weirdos out in spades.

If my Monday is any indication, my pheromones for freaks will be at full strength by later today. Awww yeah.

Incidentally, I can't utter the phrase "total eclipse of" anything anymore without thinking of when I sang "Total Eclipse of the Heart" with friend Julie Malickson at her bat mitzvah. Those were good times. I was a braver soul then, grabbing the mike and belting my way through the song in unison with Julie. I wonder what she's up to these days and if she ever starts talking or typing about solar or lunar eclipses and pauses to think of that night, so many years ago. If only all of you were here to see the fat tear rolling its way down my cheek.

August 26, 2007

My sister, dad and I went for a quick jaunt to SouthPark mall this afternoon to get a new laptop for my sister. It has been on the way out for a long time -- the screen has been holding on by a thread, the AC adapter cord has to be held at a precise angle to work and, after four years or so, various functions have just decided to give out at various points in time. It hasn't helped that in its four-year lifespan it has had a number of beverages spilled on it -- most recently a Diet Coke this past week -- and even survived a dousing with hot candle wax Keri's freshman year of college when a friend toppled a burning candle from an upper desk shelf onto her new keyboard. Yes, my sister and her lappy have had some wild and crazy times together.

Those times are coming to an end, however. After this week's Coke spill it has been trying valiantly to rally, attempting to avoid being put out to technological pasture. But alas, a brand new Mac with a rebate deductible printer and iPod have come to town. Since Keri has already started school, some post-graduate classes in all the premedical courses she never took as an undergraduate so she can apply to medical schools, it is crucial that she have a fully functioning lappy. And to put it plainly, her longtime lappy was simply too effed up. (By the by, is that how one types that? I used to think one just typed "f'ed up" but recently saw the extremely phonetic "effed up" spelling, which kind of makes it look like one hurt one's neck while looking up at the Eiffel Tower for too long. I probably don't know the correct abbreviation because normally, I just curse like a sailor and go for the real deal, spilling the F-bomb like the lady I am. However, as this blog is, in many ways, tied to the weekly paper that employs me, I am making every attempt to be as family-friendly as I possibly can. Believe me, it's painful.)

Anyway, we made our way to the Apple store our faces lined with the tension that only making a family computer purchase can muster. I saw the same look on the faces of many other families in the store: the anxiety of not knowing exactly what one wants or needs, the tension over finding an Apple employee to walk one through the purchase of a pricey technological item when the store is packed to the hilt, and the small family dynamics that make both of the previous things absolute agony. Oh, it was a sight to behold.

As I scanned the store for the lucky employee who would get to help my family (the store was so crowded that lines had already formed by other employees and most families seemed on the verge of baring teeth to defend their chosen salesperson), in my head I found myself eliminating various staffers from my list. "Too Gothic and would say 'like' and mumble too much for my dad to respect," or "clearly knows her stuff but is way too rough around the edges," were descriptors that struck two employees off the list. As I continued to evaluate employees on a completely superficial basis my sister leaned in and said exactly what I was thinking, "I don't want anyone to help us who has skinnier legs than I do," she said. "Look at all these guys. Every guy working here has skinner legs than I do."

And with a smile, I had to admit that it was true. Now, there are guys with naturally skinny legs, and then there are guys who look like they're doing cocaine in the back room and are borrowing Mick Jagger's size 000 pants for the afternoon. Many of the Apple employees this afternoon fell into the latter category I'm afraid. One had on skinny jeans and looked like he spent more time doing and volumizing his hair than I do. It was crazy. I don't remember it being like that the last time I was in there. And don't get me wrong, I'm sure these guys are kick-butt with the computer knowledge. All I'm saying is I'm not going to be able to retain anything you're telling me in reference to my computer if all I can think about is how I could break your legs like matchsticks or how you could really use a cheeseburger.

All told, we found a lovely bunch of individuals with normal-sized legs to help us so I think we'll be able to retain all that we were told. I feel like running by with a big tray of cookies and a note reading "To help you out of that pencil-legged denim, which really isn't in for guys unless you're Keith Richards. Even then it's arguable. Eat up, bulk up and thanks for all the help!"

Here we are at 3:19 in the morning and Miss Regan is wide awake. This is what comes of falling into zombie-like sleep all day. I don't know what my deal has been, but it has been an effort just to stay awake this weekend. I came home from running some errands with my sister tonight and fell asleep in my bed, half under the covers, in my jeans. I'm still yawning now and could easily drift off again. All of this comes not only after a full night of sleep on Friday night but an extensive two-hour nap Saturday afternoon after a wedding shower. Maybe I'm working on becoming narcoleptic. I wonder how that would affect the ranting and raving. Probably quite a bit.

Anywho, happy Sunday morning to you all. I didn't want to sleep without a quick post about a recent epidemic that I'm surprised has escaped public notice in the more mainstream media outlets: the rampant rise in cicada suicides. Perhaps it's just at my parents' house, but lately the suicide count amongst the nasty prehistoric insects has risen exponentially.

In my youth, a lovely cousin of mine used to pinch discarded cicada shells off trees and delicately rearrange them on my unsuspecting back or in my hair. It was charming. Back then, I didn't really have much exposure to the ugly, little Satan insects themselves, just the empty, cream-colored vessels they left behind. Those were better times, my friends -- rose-colored glasses times.

These days, my interactions with the cicada are more brutal in nature. A few weeks ago -- Sunday, Aug. 5 to be painstakingly exact (the evening before Mom's knee surgery) -- I went outside to put some soda cans in the recycling bin. I got halfway across the patio before I heard a strange buzzing. Seconds later my head was swarmed by two giant, extremely ticked off cicadas in their death throes. I started shrieking and ran back inside. One followed me back in. My father had been sitting at the kitchen table. He sprang up and in that voice of alarm that he uses for any so-called emergency asked what it was. It was quickly evident exactly what IT was. The winged devil insect angrily zoomed about the kitchen, banging into windows, cabinets and counter tops. It ricocheted off the domed inside of the stained glass kitchen light before taking to doing insane suicidal loops of the kitchen. It went super fast, tracing a huge arc that encompassed the kitchen table, nearly grazing the ceiling at its zenith and nearly hitting the floor under the table at its lowest point. It was amazing.

I like to recall the scene in the third person, imagining what it looked like with Dad and me standing there fixedly watching the scene -- a rolled up newspaper (not the Weekly) in his hand, a fly swatter and small net like one would use to catch goldfish in mine. This went on for a couple minutes before the suicidal cicada dive-bombed a corner of the kitchen. We never heard from it again. I made half-hearted attempts to find it that evening but never did. I also configured my mom's iPod downstairs that night in preparation for her surgery and never heard another peep from it.

The next morning my grandmother's nurse and family friend Evon arrived to watch her as my mom went into surgery. As I ran out the door to join my mom and dad at the hospital I ran back in, thrusting the net and fly swatter, which I had left by the door, into Evon's hands. "There could be a giant bug in the kitchen," I said. Evon's eyes widened. She was not amused. "It's a cicada. It looks like a fly only far, far uglier and much, much louder. I'm 99 percent sure it killed itself last night. But just in case, you may need these." As the kitchen door closed, I caught a glimpse of Evon standing with eyes wide as saucers, her hands white-knuckling the swatter and net.

But no one ever saw the cicada again.

It wouldn't be our last encounter with the not-so-little buggers, though. Lately, I have to call ahead when I'm returning home to gauge the cicada situation. My family has been known to enter the house from the front door a number of times if the death throes of the cicadas at the side door are getting to be too much. Mom murdered one with a broom last night up against the house. And tonight I captured the last twitches of one of them as I ran into the house.

According to the brood chart on Cicada Mania.com, North Carolina isn't slated for a swarming of Magicicadas until next year (oh yay! More exposure to the nasty little devils!). Apparently, the nasty things I've seen lately are a different genus within this ugly little family. I find it funny that Magicicadas include "magic" contained in the name. The only thing magical about these guys is that they are butt ugly. Lord knows they have survived evolution probably sheerly because, like cockroaches, they scare the living daylights out of other species. They have held onto life with an iron grip and lovingly welcomed death with an equally ferocious spirit.

You simply must check out the Cicada Mania site. Included are photos and video (yes, you too can submit footage of the ugly insect that died outside your front door), a HILARIOUS fact page (the author is extremely blunt. I love it.), brood charts (always gripping), T-shirts and more. As one might have suspected, the cicadas primary object is to mate. Then it dies. This would explain the couplings of cicadas outside the side door. They're actually doing the dirty-dirty and then ending it all. And all right out my back door! Ah, nature.

A gripping feature of the fact page includes a small Q-and-A about cicada pee, which somehow has been pleasantly referred to as "honey dew." The more I read, the more I suspect they may have swarmed two of our "wimpy ornamentals" (as the Cicada Mania author refers to them) in the front yard. This might explain the light rain effect that has been occurring under the tree lately. Oh, lovely. I've been peed on by cicadas when walking my dogs for weeks now. No wonder things have been going so well!!

Give me a heads up if you've had any close encounters of the ugly, suicidal kind with any lovely cicadas lately. I'd love to hear about it. And now, I'm off to lie dormant like a cicada and get -- even more sleep!

August 25, 2007

A big thank you to Alison Woo who gave me a gold seahorse charm this week to act as my Patronus, a la Harry Potter. I am slowly amassing a powerful Patronus necklace that will soon not be trifled with. On a gold chain around my neck I'm currently sporting a gold open-cut clover, my gold seahorse, and a blue glass Virgin Mary pendant I fell in love with at a New England flea market. They all look quite fetching together I think. Mom said, "It looks like your life -- like you have a lot going on."

Charming, no pun intended.

I love Saturday mornings. There really is nothing better in the world. But I have somewhere to be at noon, a fact which kind of cuts into the easy, breezy attitude out of an otherwise careless couple of hours.

Ooh my dear, dear friends. I have been terribly remiss in posting this week. And I had been on such a roll there for a while! I'll have to find a suitable photo to post when it's been a while and I've had a lapse. Any ideas on that front are welcome.

I've been very achy this week, like a 90-year-old woman. This is no good since I'm only in my mid 20s. Every single joint in my body aches. I don't know if it's a passing something or other, if I really am staring at 90 years old or if it could possibly be the deep-tissue massage I received last weekend. It felt heavenly at the time. I wouldn't normally opt for a deep tissue, but given the peer pressure of my accompanying massage partner who was adamant about receiving a deep-tissue massage, I figured I better not wuss out.

It's probably a bad sign if you almost cry on multiple occasions during the massage. At one point, the guy, who was 200 pounds and like Mr. Clean -- bald, brawny and soft-spoken -- had his elbow digging into a knot on my derriere and was barely moving it. I thought I was going to die. I also thought, "No pain, no gain." I would regret that thought days later when I couldn't get out of bed. Or when my left butt cheek hurt every time I took a step. In fact, it's STILL hurting every step I take. Absolutely no good. The massage felt good at the time, but now, whether due to muscle bruising or just the working out of my many knots, I feel horrible. I could go for a neck massage at least twice a week, however. Even brawny Mr. Clean was appalled to feel how knotted up I am. As he screwed his face up into a look of horror I said, "What can I say? I'm a ball of tension." He laughed and said, "I'll say." I even had a knot in my right armpit. Who knows what kinds of evils those knotted muscles held. No wonder I feel so nasty now. All those horrible feelings and all that anger and stress have been kneaded out and probably are now floating free range in my body.

So it's little wonder I can hardly walk down the stairs or that I'm holding my back more than my grandmother.

Speaking of tension, pent-up angst and ranting, I think it's funny to relate the reaction my sister has received of late when people discover that I'm her sister. She volunteered for a health clinic this summer and every week some new physician or nurse came in to volunteer, met my sister and almost every single one of them said, "Oh, your sister is Regan? From Regan's Rants?" And then in a conspiratorial fashion they leaned into her and said, "Is she always like that? I mean, is she really like that in real life? I mean, all the time?"

My sister paused, shrugged and said, "Well, yeah!"

I think this is hilarious. I wonder what being like "that" really means. You mean gripey and full of angst? Why yes! Of course! You mean sarcastic to the point that sometimes authenticity is difficult to spot? Why indeed! Or could you mean passionate to the point that I obsessively rant and rave about things? Again, yes and yes!

I'm going to run and get back to being the crazy way I am -- all the time.

August 17, 2007

This necessarily has to be a quick post as I am in the midst of preparing for the arrival of my friend Marisa tomorrow for a weekend visit. However, I could not go another minute without posting about my good friends at Steaz, the makers of everyone's favorite organic green-tea based sodas and energy drinks. Those who know me well know that I have been an addict of Steaz Energy for a while now. After putting my addiction to paper a month or so ago, I sent my commentary off to the company itself to let them know they had made a beverage well done. Co-owner Eric was kind enough to send me an entire case including a beach ball and not one but TWO girl-cut Steaz T-shirts. Needless to say I was blown away.

But that can't compare with today when I got a friendly call from Ron Germain who manages Steaz's southern territory. He was calling from the official Steaz van to say he had just made a delivery to the new Southpark Earth Fare and that he was on the way to our office, more Steaz in tow. He had Steaz and then some. He came bearing yet ANOTHER case for me, a CD, stickers galore, Steaz Frisbees AND a trucker hat that I've been sporting all day. I grabbed one of the offices cameras and headed outside with Alison to commemorate the occasion with a picture of Ron and me in front of the Steaz mobile.

But Ron didn't stop there. He reloaded his hand truck full of FOUR cases of Steaz soda for the office and yet another case of Steaz Energy. Friendly does not even describe these folks. Not only do they have a great product but they are great people. At 1:12 a.m. I'm at a surprising loss for words about the whole thing. I feel so unworthy. All I wrote was a measly piece about how I love the stuff. How can I ever repay them? What sweethearts the lot of them!

OK, must pop another can of the stuff if I am to get all this done. Be on the look-out for the new additions to their product line. They, as usual, have some great-tasting, healthy stuff coming down the pike. Click here for more details.

August 14, 2007

P.S. Anyone who already read the "Dream weaver" post might have caught the fact that I accidentally wrote that my family and I were "bundled up in hate" the last time we watched the Perseid meteor shower. It should have read "hats." Despite my better judgement (which always favors amusement), I have made the correction. Sadly, it no longer reads that my family and I were lying on a mattress in our driveway watching shooting stars while bundled up in hate, scarves and gloves.

Even while typing this I accidentally first typed "favors amusemen" instead of "amusement." Nice. I also have been known to frequently type "carp" instead of a more favored swear word. I laugh every single time I do it, which is often, particularly with the construct "holy carp." I suggest picking up whatever brain tumor I seem to have because it has provided me with endless amusement. And amusemen, who can be even better than amusement.

I say it at least three times a month. I generally say it as an aside, a frustrated punctuation as a rant peters off. I'll rant on and on and on and right near the end take a breath and mutter, "I hate people."

It's not that it's necessarily true. I once dated someone who was quite the outdoorsman. He was constantly offering that I take up residence in one of those cheap shacks on some remote trail, the kind of place where my only job to earn a roof over my head and some crackers from passing hikers on the Appalachian Trail would be just that, guiding hikers and lugging the occasional supplies up the rock face to my little hovel. It has an appeal that, for me, is entirely mental. Sure it sounds great an idyllic, but in practice -- not so much. I love the outdoors. I love a good hike. I love mountain air. I just can't endure days on end of being dirty, or battling insects or -- as this boyfriend playfully pointed out -- wiping my posterior with snow. But mostly, it's the seclusion that would get to me after a while. Sure I like time to myself. I like to think that those are my favorite times. However, I need interaction with people both to thrive and survive, inspire and conspire. It is the most necessary evil in my life. For while the quirks and nuances of people are the very lifeblood by which I live, they also drive me insane. People are both my greatest blessing and my ultimate ruin. Dealing with some of them is an absolute trial.

And so, without getting into details (there really are none today -- honest. I'm not really speaking of anyone specifically, I just have that general feeling of "I hate people" malaise.) I will just leave it at that. A brief rant, a sigh, a pause and an "I hate people" declaration.

August 13, 2007

I'm sitting at my desk with the blinds wide open, all the lights off, watching what I can of the Perseid shower. The last time my family was all together for the Perseids was when the shower fell on my mom's birthday. We dragged the mattress we use to move my sister's harp out onto the driveway and all laid down on it. It was November and extremely cold out. We bundled up in hats, gloves and scarves and had a huge blanket over all four of us. Neighbors were pulling out of their driveways headed out to work early and there we were, lying in our driveway on a mattress wearing mismatched cold weather gear. It was a really great couple hours. The meteor shower that morning was amazing. My mom reminded me of it this evening and we both smiled.

It's already 1:30 and I should be exhausted. I really am, actually, but am finding it hard to get to bed. My head is still whirring, still so much to do. I'll be interested to see what my dreams are this evening. Last night they were quite vivid. The part I remembered the most was walking down the highway to a new, giant Halloween store that was opening. Traffic was stopped for miles as people slowed to watch the display the store was putting on for its grand opening, including scary dummies with frightening masks hanging from nooses and trees and impaled on spikes and spears. A stage near the road featured some kind of song-and-dance numbers from costumed employees. Passing cars were fully stopped on the roadway to watch. It was this time of year and still very warm out, yet I was really excited about the opening of this Halloween place. I know it was somewhere in South Carolina because walking along the highway I kept trying to decide what to do and where to go with Marisa -- Charleston, the beach, here -- I recall thinking "well, we're already in South Carolina, we're halfway, really." before recalling that she's flying into Charlotte at the end of this week and thus I'd have to drive back to get her anyway.

Still pensive, I came around the back of the Halloween warehouse where there was a giant field, tons of people lounging around, eating grand opening buffet food and talking. An old friend who I'm not on good terms with at the moment was in the back, ignoring me. We exchanged heated words. The friend initially seemed to understand me, understand why I can't let things continue on the lame cycle they've been on. But in the end, they just clammed up again, said nothing and walked away. I was angry, disappointed and sad, and headed inside only to find that the grand opening buffet had been ransacked. All that was left were a few chocolate-covered strawberries. As I ate one and returned to the grass out back, Lindsay Lohan, inexplicably also a friend, approached me. We too fought. I gave her a similar spiel as the friend before. She said, "You keep talking and it's so boring. It's just a bunch of words coming out of your mouth. I have no idea what you're saying." And she lazily cupped her hands and moved them, mocking a flapping mouth while rolling her eyes.

"I'll make it simple," I told her, "you're a jerk." Only I didn't say jerk. I don't remember much after that.

I woke up feeling unsettled. This is the second time in two weeks that I've dreamt about my actual friend/not-so-friend and it bothers me. It bothers me for multiple reasons but primarily because I'm just so disappointed, and no amount of me calling or e-mailing or contacting this person and explaining why I'm upset will fix things. I can't help this person come to the conclusions they'll have to for us to be friends again. And on top of that, they made me miss the grand opening buffet of the Halloween store!

Anyway, I don't intentionally mean to be nebulous. I don't mean to rehash it all except to say that it's frustrating. And, essentially, that you'd think I was dropping acid before going to bed. I'm not. I swear. My dreams would probably be a touch MORE normal if I DID drop acid before bed, perhaps.

It's nearing 2. I should try and turn in for a few hours lest I be totally droopy-eyed and incoherent tomorrow.

I would like to extend a most sincere thank you to everyone who has reached out to my mother and my family while my mom has been recovering from her surgery. It really is true that when the going gets tough you truly find out who your friends are. Not that we've been heavily, heavily taxed over here, but Mom really is the nucleus of our family and with her out of commission and Grandma H. now making weekly trips to the hospital, all of your help, support, surprise meals and desserts and flowers and well-wishing means so, so much.

And a big thank you as well to the individuals I hardly or don't even know who have approached me this weekend and wished my mother well due to what they read in my column this week in Charlotte Weekly and Union County Weekly. My mother has been tickled by the attention. I have been touched to find so many care. Thank you for taking such an interest and for proving to me again and again that goodness does prevail in the world.

I hope all of you have a most wonderful week. Happy Monday morning. Happy Perseid meteor shower. Sweet dreams and may you not miss the Halloween store grand opening buffet in your mind. xo

August 12, 2007

Ah, Sunday, Sunday -- the day that never seems long enough to get everything done.

Then again, every day has felt that way lately.

I have a genuine appreciation for what my mom does every day now. Not that I didn't before. But now I really understand why she complains she's not able to get anything done. The simple act of cooking for everyone, laying out meals, cleaning up every meal, loading and unloading the dishwasher, doing wash and even keeping three rooms of the downstairs clean is mind boggling. Add my 93-year-old grandmother to the mix and I don't know how my mom isn't collapsing with exhaustion every day. Her partial knee replacement has gone well. Almost too well. She did too much yesterday and thankfully has been down for the count much of today, which is good.

Still, there was a Knights of Columbus breakfast this weekend and many of the knights who were supposed to take over and help were away on vacation. So it fell to Dad and two other guys. Dad and I set up the church kitchen until midnight last night. I could hardly walk when I got home. I'm going to need a knee replacement by next year I have a feeling. Maybe we could get a family discount since everyone in my family has horrid knees.

Anywhoo, I've been absolutely exhausted. Which makes for some fun and loopy Regan ranting and raving.

I was thinking about it last night while carving a small roasted turkey a family from church had brought over -- instead of spending so much time creating genetically altered fruits and vegetables without seeds and the like, can't we make some turkeys and chickens without bones? Albeit they'd be ugly little mothers, but sweet Lord, I hate carving up birds. I don't really mind the carving, actually, except that it takes away whatever appetite I did have in the first place. Exposing the sinewy joints of the wings and drumsticks was disgusting and an all-too-clear reminder of the surgery my mother just endured. No thank you.

In other bird news, I was driving home from doing a bunch of errands late in the week and was pretty much delirious. The things I was finding on the road were not helping my state. I thought I saw a sandal in the middle of the road in my neighborhood. After my car glided over it, untouched, I realized it was actually a turtle from the nearby pond. Generally I get out of the car when turtles from the ponds escape and find their way into the road. This happened only a few weeks ago during a heavy rain. I picked up the nasty, algae-covered shell of the thing and safely put it on the other side of the road. I didn't have time to help this little guy the other night, though, because I was distracted by yet another strange animal sight -- a Robin that must have died of a heart attack in the road, still standing. My car tires passed within inches of the little bird's body and it just stood there, not moving. It was the weirdest thing I have seen in some time. The next time I passed by I found someone had actually squashed the thing. All that was left was a little pile of feathers and mush. It helped a bit to know that it was already dead when it got smashed.

When Keri and I were in Italy this spring, we sat outside eating lunch at a street-side cafe in Milan one day. Some electrical workers were working on the lines while also hanging up new weird advertisements for various stores along the street. In the process, a pigeon must have hit the wire; we didn't see it happen, but we did see it fall to the street dead and a number of the workers point at it. A few minutes later, a woman happened along the spot. She was wearing a skirt suit with pumps. The kind of getup my grandmother once wore 24/7. She started crossing the street, kicking the dead pigeon out of her way with the side of her heel as she went. It was unbelievable. She didn't even look twice. Its frozen claws stuck out from the shadow of the planter where she had kicked it. nice.

All of this to say, let's go ahead and try to make some boneless birds. They'd be ugly blobs and probably highly prone to injury with just a mass of flesh and organs rolling around. But my goodness I hate picking around the bones. Hate it. Hate it so much that last night, after cutting turkey for my father and grandmother, I just had a plain salad. I couldn't handle it.

And suddenly here we are, five minutes shy of 5 p.m. on Sunday and I'm going on and on about birds. How did this happen? Oh, Sunday, Sunday.

Hey all! Once again, a VERY quick note as Ms. Regan is mucho exhausted. I couldn't believe when I checked back at my blog this afternoon that what I had written last night was actually somewhat coherent. Last night, much like tonight, I had my laptop propped on my lap in bed and was squinting at the screen, typing while shaking myself awake. I have found, however, that unless I get my thoughts down as soon as I possibly can, they are lost entirely. And while posts about Hello Kitty cops and the like might not seem crucial to all of you out there, believe me, this garbage is all I think about. And if, perchance, I work up a really good rant (like sudsing up one's hair with shampoo lather) and then later FORGET what the rant was, in fact, about because I never wrote it down -- well, there's nothing worse. Again, I don't know if that was even a complete sentence or not. I'm now half propped, almost on my side in the official Regan sleeping position, wet hair splayed on the pillow beside me. And apparently I'm digressing. Point is, I need to start writing stuff down because my mind is like a sieve these days.

A few days ago I was sent a media mailing for the latest series of Complete Idiot's Guide books. It wasn't much, kind of like a small newsletter or church bulletin, printed in black and white on white paper, simply detailing upcoming books in the rather aggravating series with small write-ups and jacket cover images.

I don't exactly know what it is about the Idiot Guides that ticks me off so much, but it does. They must be immensely popular or else they wouldn't have an Idiot's Guide to just about everything. This mailing proves that point. Gone, apparently, are the simply days of "The Idiot's Guide to Understanding Your Computer." Here are the days where we instead find "The Idiot's Guide to the Indigo Child."

Perhaps you know what an Indigo Child is. I, being an idiot, did not. Indigo Children, I'm gleaning from the writeup, are kids who are immensely gifted and intelligent, often misdiagnosed with ADHD and learning disorders and who often have special powers, psychic abilities and are destined to "change the world." This book offers tips on how to successfully raise such children into the pillars of societal change they will one day become once all of their quirky, ADD misunderstood intelligence is harnessed. I find it interesting there would be an Idiot's Guide to something most people (I'm guessing) probably have never heard of. Can that even happen? Isn't the Idiot's Guide title supposed to imply that everyone has an understanding of what said topic is, and that the guide is just there to, well, guide you? How can there be an Idiot's Guide to Raising an Indigo Child when I don't even know what an Indigo Child is? Isn't that the first step in even finding help. Despite the idiot labeling, it's like I'm cut out of the equation before I even crack open the cover of the book.

And that's really what it comes down to. No one, I think, wants to be checking out of the book store buying a book with the words "idiot" and "guide" on it. Even more than that, they're not just talking about your run-of-the-mill, come-and-go idiot. They're talking about the COMPLETE idiot. Oh yes, please. That's me! Complete Idiot's Guide to Functioning in Society, here I come.

So anyway, leafing through this brochure, one title really stuck out for me. "The Complete Idiot's Guide to Life After Death." It struck me as so funny that for a while I couldn't get a hold of myself. The title makes it sound as if one is purchasing a handbook to understanding what we might find when we cross over the great divide. Instead, I found out, the book offers comparisons and explorations of the afterlife beliefs of various faiths and cultures. An actual guide to the afterlife would be a whole lot better.

It reminds me of the movie "Beetlejuice," one of my absolute favorite movies of all time. Sweet country folk Barb and Adam get killed when their station wagon swerves off a covered bridge to avoid a cat. (Wow, I even remembered there names. THIS is why I can't remember anything, because my brain is full of useless details like the names of the characters in a movie from more than 10 years ago. The fact that I can list three more off of the top of my head -- Lydia Dietz, Charles Dietz and Otho -- makes me want to cry. Anyway, Barb and Adam find a Handbook for the Recently Deceased in their house after their fatal car accident. The book reads like stereo instructions and offers advice on how to properly haunt one's house, etc.

No such things are offered in the "Complete Idiot's Guide to Life After Death." Don't think I don't know an opportunity when I see one.

August 09, 2007

This week's rant in Charlotte Weekly discusses a little bit about my angst regarding evolution. You know, little things, like how I can't believe in 2007 our eyes, ears noses and throats are all still connected. We shouldn't still be able to blow Sprite out of our noses. We shouldn't be able to suck coleslaw into our windpipes. I know evolution works slowly, like beyond one's realm of comprehension slow. But still -- give me a break. We shouldn't still have SO much in common with our simian brothers. I know a bunch of jerks are going to e-mail me pointing out why humans specifically still have knuckle hair and why having pouches like kangaroos would not be an improvement over the current human mode of gestating offspring. Ooh I can't wait!

Anyway, I had obviously written that rant this past weekend before Mom's surgery took place on Monday and before a whole host of other rant-worthy things happened. I started writing a new rant last night to incorporate all the new angst but I re-read the first one, liked it, and figured I'd roll over what I could to my next rant. But one thing I absolutely wanted to get in this week and couldn't space-wise was the compelling news story about Thai cops who, when they commit misdemeanor offenses like parking in prohibited spaces and littering, are now forced to wear bright pink Hello Kitty armbands as a "sign of shame." If I may loosely paraphrase, the head of the police department said that other methods of enforcement were not effective and that they were striving for shame. He said Hello Kitty was the international symbol for cute, something big, burly police officers want nothing to do with. The armbands feature Hello Kitty sitting on top of two hearts. Officers who commit minor offenses are only required to wear the Kitty armband while at work. They don't have to wear them out in public.

And why not? Isn't that the whole point? Who cares when it's just kind of an inner office joke? And SHAME? SHAME? Is this guy for real? A Hello Kitty armband?!? That's the best punishment ever. I'm toying with writing to that police department and saying I'll PAY to get one of those armbands. I'm sure I wouldn't be the first one to ask, either.

A link to the full story, via our friends across the pond at the BBC, can be found here.

One question about the AP image here: Why is this armband so damn loose? Shouldn't it be snug on this guy's arm? This makes it look like the armband inflates, like it's a kid's Hello Kitty arm swimmy. Which, in my opinion, would be even cooler.

August 08, 2007

I can't type much because I'm exhausted and have another full day ahead of me. There are lots of things I could rant about this evening. Mom had a partial knee replacement yesterday and is doing well. She is the worst patient ever. I wouldn't even call her a patient really, that's how resistant to care she is. What's worse, is that she thinks she's a stellar patient. I can't believe we're only on Day 2. I've lost track of what day of the week it is. Suffice it to say, I could go on and on about the subject - the months of Mom obsessing over whether she'd have to have a full or partial knee replacement (something that couldn't be entirely determined until they went in); the weeks of Mom vacillating between thinking she'd be right out of the hospital to thinking she'd die there, including how she'd intersperse conversations with things like "So you know, here is this new medication grandma takes ... by the way, I also keep my good jewelry here. Just in case," or "Sometimes I put these socks on grandma. By the way, this necklace and these earrings would go back to Pat when Grandma dies." Uh huh.

So, yeah, there's a lot of material there. The hospital also discharged her this evening, a fact I'm really not too happy about. Now she's shacked up on a bed downstairs in our living room, rattling around on her walker, walking too much, changing her dressings, screwing with the traction machine and the lead to her pain killer ball. Good God.

So we will return to this fascinating subject. But before I go, one thing on the hospital. Now, I'm not faulting the hospital for this. There are billions of business that use this exact phraseology. Whoever came up with it should be shot.

The hospital we were at was being renovated in a big way. The parking deck is clearly temporary and kind of haphazard and weird. The walk from visitor parking to the hospital is a long, hot trek marked by a sagging wooden footbridge of sorts (not a rickety kind leading to a dragon lair but clearly a walkway suspended over an area (not too high but high enough) that gives when one walks and is carpeted and all around does not feel safe. There are construction crews everywhere. And that's fine. What gets me is the GIANT signs that read "Please pardon our construction. We're working to better serve you." And while that may be true, don't put that back on the consumer!!! When it's 100 degrees out and I've made three treks out to my car for different items I've forgotten the last thing I want to see after a confusing parking deck or a long, treacherous walkway is a sign that essentially tells me it's all my fault.

It's almost like those signs were constructed as a silent answer to the question that all proprietors know people are asking. "Good God, why me? Why now? Why this construction? I'm late. I might not make it to my brother's surgery." Then "WHAM!" a large, white sign smugly proclaiming that all this is your own fault. Niiiiice. Kind of like a "Well, you asked for it!"

August 06, 2007

It is with more regrets than I can mention that I write to all of you to let you know that on Saturday evening at 5:55 p.m. a great light went out in the world with the passing of Michelle Dunnagan. I was at the uptown Criterium bike race when I first heard the news and then awoke early Sunday to a phone call from Michelle's husband Macon telling me the news.

I have a couple of Macon's numbers saved in my phone and as I had passed a fitful night and didn't recognize the number, I didn't answer when my phone rang at 8 a.m., although I sat up straight in bed. Listening to Macon's message about the very sad news he had to share with me and his request that I call him back immediately recalled the last time I was called about someone's death. That passing, too, revolved around cancer.

The call was more than 10 years ago when I was 14 years old and my friend Chelsea died of malignant melanoma. I had known that call was coming as well.

My dogs slept with me last night and I walked them briefly before calling Macon back so I wouldn't be interrupted by them. Leaving them inside for their morning repast, I went back outside and sat down on the front step, looking out at the flowers and the green grass and that expansive blue sky. There's something claustrophobic about talking about death indoors.

Michelle was no ordinary woman. I know that is a sentiment often expressed when individuals die. Whether it's always warranted is debatable. Except in this case. I had become friendly with Macon long before I ever met Michelle and often heard of her that way. For those of you who don't know, Macon -- a Charlotte native and US Air employee -- has climbed Kilimanjaro eight times. Driven by Michelle's ovarian cancer diagnosis two years ago, Macon led two climbs up the famed African mountain last fall on behalf of awareness for the National Ovarian Cancer Coalition. He spoke on behalf of the NOCC at two national conventions this year. In 2008 he'll lead four more climbs up Kilimanjaro, twice in February and twice in September 2008, again for the NOCC, this time to raise awareness and funding. In my short time first getting to know Macon, I knew that given what a remarkable man HE was, his wife Michelle couldn't be anything short of amazing.

He spoke of how smart she was, how compassionate, how organized, how driven, how inspiring. In short: How there was no one else like her. Initially I believed him but also tempered his words with the fact that he was married to her, figuring that of course he would feel that way. As I saw the effect Michelle had on everyone around her, especially those she didn't even meet, I began to feel differently. Most especially when I had the chance to meet her the day after Christmas this past holiday season.

I met her on Dec. 26, 2006, at Carolina Oncology Associates uptown where she was slated to receive another round of chemotherapy. I will still never forget the scene that morning. I recommend that anyone feeling an ounce of self pity around the holidays stop by this facility. To see every single alcove filled with cancer patients the day after Christmas was heartbreaking. There were grandmothers and grandfathers, little boys and tiny girls, teenagers and young mothers.

And then there was Michelle. I was anxious. I have never been very good around the elderly or the extremely ill in my opinion. When I was very, very young I was best friends with my elderly neighbor Mr. Taylor. Toward the end of his life he returned from the hospital on a stretcher, confined to a hospital bed in his living room and dependent on a laminated alphabet card to communicate. I can still recall him valiantly trying to talk to me by using the card. He was making jokes, pointing to my ears and asking if my dad had eased up and let me get my ears pierced yet. (I was still wearing stick-on earrings per my father's decree that I be 18 before I get "holes in my ears." He relented earlier than that but Mr. Taylor wouldn't live to see it.) I didn't know what to do around him and looked everywhere in the room but at him. It was the last time I saw him and for a very long time I regretted the encounter.

I found I wasn't much better in seventh and eighth grade with Chelsea's illness. I didn't visit her as much as I should have. When I did I never knew what to say. Cancer always seemed like the elephant in the room. We all wanted to act like everything was normal and OK. So did she, really. We all knew everything really wasn't OK and the undeniable fact was sometimes difficult to sidestep. The encounters always left me feeling torn -- happy to see her but feeling horrible that I had somehow blundered it, looked away too often to avoid facing the disease that had ravaged my friend.

I like to think that in my job I have become better at addressing some of these things or at least accepting the fact that, where fatal illness is concerned, there really are no "right" words to use. And when the door on this world closes and another, infinitely more beautiful one opens, I imagine those are not the things we carry with us anyway. I imagine we don't recall how our brother blundered his goodbye or how our neighbor looked away. I imagine we know they were there in the ways that they could be. I've learned over time that the silence between two people is OK. I've learned that sometimes the quiet is enough. I've also learned that instead of trying to find the right words and almost always failing, sometimes it's best to just listen.

I had heard from a friend that Chelsea wrote in her journal that a handful of people, myself included, were the few people that still treated her the way she used to be. The Chelsea she was before cancer. It surprised me she felt that way. I always thought I had done so poorly around her after her diagnosis. Her words have stuck with me and have helped me with other people I have met. Many of the individuals I meet and interview are already in the throes of cancer. Many already look leagues different than they used to. I try and focus on their eyes and look past the fatigue and the port sites and the pain killers and cancer's other heinous bedfellows and instead find the person underneath -- the people they were before cancer. The people they still are underneath a sometimes very obvious disease.

All of these things rushed through me the morning I met Michelle. I immediately felt at ease when I saw her eyes. She was exhausted and rail-thin and soft-spoken. But those blue sparkling eyes hadn't changed from the photos I had seen. They reflected all that Macon had told me about. Her defiant, resilient spirit. Her will to overcome. Her thirst for knowledge. It was all there in those eyes. And that smile.

We talked of different things. She spoke about how proud she was of Macon. She also spoke about how hard it has been for her to see Macon and her friends and family having to struggle with her illness. Michelle, an ever bright and shiny person, admitted how hard it was to learn how "it's OK to not be a bright, shiny penny all the time." Humor was her close ally. She talked about how she and Macon did not carry false hopes but instead used humor to handle the situation. She said she was scared sometimes but had learned it was OK to be scared. She wanted others with cancer to know that it was alright to be scared.

It was life changing talk from a woman who clearly made a life out of being not only a bright, shiny penny but THE bright, shiny penny. A woman who was still working for Northwest Mutual through her chemo treatments. A woman who was not only still buying, wrapping and shipping Christmas cards and gifts for friends and family this past Christmas but also adopted a family through the Department of Social Services and did the same.

We talked about her importance in the belief of paying things forward. And how cancer had made her place a premium on doing little things for people and not waiting as much anymore. She said she tried to compliment one person she didn't know every single day on something. She said she wrote more letters to managers recommending the customer service of various bank tellers and waitresses and other employees than she ever had before.

And when I asked her what she most wanted other people to know or what her greatest lesson through all of this had been, she quoted for me a line from the poem commonly attributed to 85-year-old Nadine Stair. If you haven't read it in full; you should some time. The origin of the poem has been debated but, in the end, is immaterial. Michelle echoed the author's words, saying, "If I have my life to live over, I would start barefoot earlier in the spring -- and stay that way later in the fall." She then added, "We should all learn that when we are very young and learn to live by it a little more."

She wasn't able to receive chemotherapy that day as her counts were too low. The news turned Macon's face haggard. Where he had earlier been bubbly and cheery the news understandably made him a constellation of worry. Such were the ups and downs of the life they led the past two years.

Over the past few months I have been lucky enough to receive updates from Macon in the form of e-mails and voice mails here and there, sometimes about Kilimanjaro, sometimes about Michelle. In a way, the two became inextricably linked, both beautiful, both seemingly insurmountable challenges. Both priceless to Macon.

For my part, I still have my conversation with Michelle on my recorder. At poignant times the past few months I would head off to an interview, scan through my old recordings for space, and happen upon Michelle's voice, each time softly reminding me to go barefoot.

It most recently happened a few weeks ago. Her voice filled my car before I entered an interview with the area vice president for CVS. My eyes filled with tears. In a way, I wasn't surprised when I received Macon's voice mail and e-mail that afternoon. After two years, 32 chemotherapies, 10 radiation treatments and 20 surgeries, Michelle was going home. Her five doctors agreed there was nothing more to be done. Hospice took over.

I met Macon for coffee a week after that phone call. His eyes teared with a mixture of sorrow and months of sleepless nights. And again, it was heart wrenching.

And once again, when the phone call came this morning, in a way I wasn't surprised. I was immensely touched that Macon would call me. I feel honored just to know him, just to have gotten to know Michelle even in the tiniest way. And as I sat on the front step this morning, talking to Macon about the "most wonderful girl he knew," I knew she wasn't very far away.

There are times when Death seems, to me, to be a complete puzzlement. It seems terrifying and horrible, scary and uncertain. There are times when I feel very alone. And, at others, very much surrounded by those who have died.

I've told many already, but Chelsea wrote a poem to Tom Petty's song "Free Falling" shortly before she died. I, and many of our classmates, have always associated the song with her. Last year, I rode especially for her at 24 Hours of Booty, a local charity cycling ride, and as I pulled off the road famished and frustrated, "Free Falling" clearly came over the loud speakers. It happened again this year as I pulled in from my final lap at the same event. Only moments earlier I had worried about not making one final lap to try and join up with my team. But as I rolled into camp to meet my team at our tent, Tom Petty kicked in with "Free Falling" the moment I hit the grass. I smiled and looked up to heaven. It's childish really. Chelsea is all around me; it's not as if I need to literally look to heaven. But I think it helps. I laid on the grass, watching the clouds go by in a perfect blue sky; and as the song concluded, my team rolled up.

Some could say that such things are mere coincidence. In the words of Paul Simon, why deny the obvious, child?

In this way I am comforted. I am relieved Michelle is no longer suffering. Her end was not an easy one and Macon assured me she fought it valiantly, keeping up a heartbeat of 114 with a blood pressure of 0/35 for quite some time. She held onto life with a ferocity that many of us would do well to remember. I rejoice that her pain is over. I relish that she has finally found peace, even if she fought it to the very end.

And yet, I still grieve for those of us left behind. It is sometimes a cold life we lead on Earth. There is love and laughter and happiness but a fair share of hardship and heartache as well, sometimes more for some than others.

But I firmly believe we'll all meet up in the end. Chelsea, me, Macon, Michelle and thousands of others. We'll go barefoot and lie in the grass, laughing and watching the clouds roll by. Then again, that's my dream. I imagine Macon's might be much the same -- perhaps only set in Africa atop the majestic heights of Kilimanjaro.

Until then I'll go barefoot every chance I get, mindful of the signs all around me. After all, why deny the obvious, child?

Last night I had a nightmare. It was horrible. I had a dream that my dad died. I was crying throughout the entire dream and woke up feeling panicked. It was only after waking that I recalled glimpsing the coroner's report which stated "Cause of death: shot to the throat."

This is why one should not go to Brixx at 11:30 at night, sit on the patio and overhear sketchy conversation. Sketchy drug-deal gone awry conversation combined with late-night Mexican pizza can only make for nightmares.

What I really want to rant about today is the dude in the construction truck who came to a full stop in the turn lane of Highway 51 this morning, got out of his car, removed two bottled waters from the cooler in the back and slowly loped back to the driver seat. He essentially made us both miss the light. I could see perhaps performing this task while the light is red. And that's a maybe. But when we have a green arrow to turn left on a busy road, that is NOT the time to put your car in park and grab a cold one from the flatbed of your truck. Nope.

I don't like people who engage in road rage. Barring urgent baby deliveries or other hospital emergencies, my thinking is typically that there really is nowhere that we have to get to THAT desperately that we should be ticked off. But this ticked me off. You better watch out, bottled water man.

I had big plans for this evening. The U.S. National Whitewater Center is having some throw-down fun evening events, bands, wing and beer specials every Thursday night in August. I had planned on going but found myself exhausted. I didn't want to get there and yawn through the whole thing so I puttered around doing a little of this, a little of that and a whole lot of nothing. I then realized I really hadn't eaten dinner and my sister agreed to join me at Brixx at 11 p.m. or so for a pizza.

We sat outside. It was gorgeous out -- warm but mild. The pizza was delish and it was quiet. Except for the screams of the dude on his cell phone yelling, "All I know is my BOY got SHOT in the THROAT!"

It was unbelievable. This guy was evidently one of the wait staff of a neighboring restaurant in the complex. He had been at the bar with some co-workers but repeatedly came out onto the patio to tell yet another person on his cell phone that his friend got shot in the throat. He held a beer in one hand, carefully balancing a cigarette between his fingers. He repeatedly kicked the patio furniture and stormed around yelling into his phone.

I guess I live a pretty sheltered life. The people I know don't get shot in the throat. At least if they did, I'd be crying and freaking out. I can't imagine I'd call someone and just yell, "My GIRL got SHOT in the THROAT!" The guy said this over and over again angrily like the person on the other end of the phone line wasn't really getting the point. Maybe he too was stunned. He just seemed more angry than surprised. And what did he really expect the person on the other end of the phone to do?

Regardless, such is not something I regularly deal with. I sat there, happily munching on my Mexican pizza sans jalapenos trying to figure out what to do with the fact that some guy with us on the patio was really angry that his friend was shot in the throat. It's very difficult to follow such proclamations with any kind of conversation.

"My BOY was shot in the throat!"

"So, anyway, this woman at the clinic, she was telling me about how ..." my sister started.

"SHOT! In the F'ING THROAT! My BOY!"

"Yeah, I've heard that can happen. I was reading an article where ..." I replied to my sister.

(patio furniture is kicked.)

"So about the plans for this weekend, I was thinking that maybe I could ..." my sister offered.

"Yeah, that sounds like a good plan," I said, strains of "F'ing throat!" being screamed in the background.

I don't mean to be insensitive, but honestly, what are you supposed to do with that? Ask if he's OK? Which would naturally lead me to ask how such a thing could happen. I can see it now, me asking the guy if he's involved in drug use or sales. And then I would be shot in the f'ing throat.